:-NRLF 


3    327    352 


LITTLE    STORIES 


LITTLE 

STORIES 

BY 

S.  WEIR   MITCHELL,  M.D, 

LL.D.     HARVARD    AND    EDINBURGH 


NEW    YORK 

THE    CENTURY    CO, 

MDCCCC  III 


Copyright,  1891,  1902,  1903,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co. 
Copyright,  1902,  by  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

Published,  October,  1903 


D.  B.  Updike,  The  Merrymount  Press,  Boston 


CONTENTS 

I.  A    CONSULTATION  PAGE       3 

II.  TWO    MEN  15 

III.  HAROUN    THE    CALIPH  21 

IV.  THE    WATERS    OF    OBLIVION  25 
V.  CONVERSION  41 

VI.  A    MAN    AND    A    WOMAN  *5 

VII.  A    GHOST    OF    GLORY  53 

iii.  THE  WISE 

IX.  A    DILEMMA 

X.  THE    JEWELS    OF    CONSISTENCY  8? 

XI.  "THOU  ART  THE  SOUL  OF  THY  HOUSE "      91 

XII.  A    STEP-SON    OF    KNOWLEDGE  103 

XIII.  THE    SINS    OF    THE    FATHERS  1°7 


I 
A    CONSULTATION 


A   CONSULTATION 


IJOTH  men  were  physicians.  The  older 
of  the  two  was  far  on  in  a  life  of  suc 
cess.  The  man  he  bade  be  seated  had 
blue  eyes,  and  was  the  owner  of  forty 
well- used  years. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  John,"  said  the 
older  man.  He  was  about  to  add, 
"You  look  worried,"  but,  on  second 
thought,  said  only: 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"You  can  listen  to  me  for  ten  min 
utes." 

"As  long  as  you  like;  you  know  we 
do  that  all  day.  Don't  hurry." 

"You  know,  doctor,  that  I  was  once 
engaged  to  Helen  Daunton.  That  was 
ten  years  ago." 

"Yes — I  know.  Quite  so;  yes — 
(  3  ) 


/t  ;:.»....»  L'lTTLE    STORIES 

*»*•••*•*  »t  •**••'        «    •*«        * 

'yes* — 'remetnber  it  well — yes." 

The  younger  man  said:  "No,  you 
do  not  know,  and  don't  say  'Yes— 
yes'  that  way." 

The  gray  head  turned  with  a  quick 
side  glance  of  questioning  observa 
tion,  and  knew  at  once  that  this  was  a 
man  to  be  taken  with  care.  He  said: 
"Go  on,  John;  I  interrupted  you." 

"I  fell  ill;  I  went  to  India  and 
Australia.  When  I  came  back  she  was 
married,  the  wife  of — of  all  men — 
Wanfell,  the  banker.  He  was  thirty 
years  older  than  she.  What !  what  was 
I  saying  ?  I  mean,  she  was  thirty  years 
younger  than  he.  I  did  not  know  why 
she  did  it.  Now  I  know." 

The  older  man  said:  "I  remember 
her  well.  She  was  beautiful — but— 

John  interrupted  hastily:  "That's 
unnecessary.  I  wish  you  would  listen." 

Here   he   rose  and  bent  over  his 


A    CONSULTATION 

friend,  who  remained  seated,  a  hand  on 
his  cheek,  intent  and  a  little  anxious. 

"This  fellow  Wanfell  was  my  fa 
ther's  partner,  and — ruined  him." 

"Yes — yes." 

"Oh,  damn  it!  Don't  say  'Yes- 
yes'  that  way." 

The  hazel  eyes  below  the  gray  hair 
became  more  tenderly  attentive. 

"Pardon   me,  John.   I   sometimes 
forget  how  to  listen." 

"Well,  don't  do  that  again;  I— I— 
can't  bear  it.  I  have  hoped  the  years 
would  give  me  a  chance — I  mean— 
I  hoped  that  man  would  some  day  be 
in  my  power.  He  is!  He  was — and 
now — now—  '  Here  he  paused,  and 
then  went  on:  "What  was  it  I  was 
saying?  Oh,  that  woman!" 

The  older  physician  laid  a  hand  on 
his  arm. 

"You  were  saying,  John,  I  think— 
(  5  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

"No — no;  you  asked  me  why  she 
married  that  scoundrel." 

"No,  my  dear  fellow,  I  did  not 
ask—" 

"But  your  eyes  asked." 

"You  must  excuse  them.  The  curi 
osity  of  the  eyes  is  not  to  be  governed. 
But — go  on.  What  else  is  there?  Tell 
me  quietly." 

John  sat  down. 

"Quietly!  My  God!  You  know,  sir, 
I  have  never  cared  for  any  other  wo 
man.  She  has  always  had  my — love. 
I  have  kept  away  from  her.  We  have 
met  but  twice  in  a  chance  way,  and 
once  for  a  mad  moment.  Now,  sir, 
now — oh,  that  woman,  that  woman! 
I — knew  she  could  not  help  it — and 
she  is — she  is— 

"Drop  her,  John,  and  tell  me  what 
you  want  of  me." 

"I  will — I  will.  It  is  just  this:  A 
(6  ) 


A    CONSULTATION 

week  ago,  late,  about  eleven  at  night, 
a  servant  came  in  haste  with  a  note 
from  her.  Would  I  come  instantly  to 
see — Wanfell.  He  had  had  a  fit.  I 
went;  of  course  I  went.  She  said  I 
must  keep — the  case.  God  help  and 
pardon  me,  I  did — I  did!" 

"Why  did  you?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  me?  You  know 
—well  enough." 

"Are  you  still  in  charge?" 

"Yes.  He  is  very  ill;  half  conscious; 
a  decayed  beast.  He  may  die  any  mo 
ment — any  moment,  or  drag  on  for 
years — years" 

"I  see." 

"No,  you  do  not.  Every  day  she 
says:  'How  long  will  he  last?  Will  he 
die  soon  ?  It  is  cruel  to  try  to  keep  him 
alive!'" 

"People  often  say  that,"  said  the 
older  physician. 

(  7  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

"I  know;  but  you  understand. 
Don't  trifle  with  me.  I  told  you  what 
she  said,  and  you  should  not  want  me 
to  say  more.  I  will  not— 

"Whatever  I  can  do  for  you  I  will 
do." 

"Then  take  this  case  off  my  hands. 
You  or  some  one  must — take  it." 

"Very  well,  John;  I — " 

"It  isn't  well  at  all!  Help  me  now 
—at  once.  Can't  you  see  my — my 
trouble?" 

"Yes ;  I  saw  it  all  along.  I  will  help 
you.  It  is  easy— 

"Easy!  Nothing  is  easy.  I  say,  I 
cannot  stand  it!  That  half-dead  dog 
—and  that — that  woman!" 

He  stood  up  and  went  on:  "Now 
do  you  think  I  was  right  to  yield— 
to  stay  on — stay  on?  Pity  me!  I  had 
two  good — I  mean  two  bad — rea 
sons — the  man  and  the  woman.  I  am 
(8) 


A    CONSULTATION 

plain,  you  see." 

He  laughed,  and  it  was  not  a  laugh 
good  to  hear. 

"I  shall   be  frank  with   you,  my 
friend.   You  were  wrong;  you  hate 
him,  and  you  love- 
John  broke  in :  "Don't  say  that  kind 
of  thing!  Don't  hint  it!" 

"But,  my  dear  fellow— 

"We  won't  discuss  it.  I  am  the  per 
son  concerned.  You  let  him  alone— 
and  her,  too.  You  never  were  in  the 
hell  of  a  marriage  like  that.  What 
must  I  do?  I  want  to  be  made  to  do 
something — forced — " 

"  Be  quiet  a  moment.  Sit  down  and 
I  will  answer  you." 

He  took  out  his  watch  and  laid  a 
finger  on  his  friend's  pulse.  Presently 
he  looked  up,  and  said,  smiling: 

"You  have  consulted  me,  and  now, 
as  your  doctor,  I  say,  my  dear  fellow, 
(9) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

that  you  are  in  no  state  to  practise 
medicine." 

"That  is  so." 

"Neither  are  you  fit  to  have  the 
charge  of  a  man  who  may  die  at  any 
moment— 

"And  who  ought  to  die,  damn 
him!" 

"Yes;  but  it  must  not  be  while  he 
is  in  your  care.  Go  out  of  town — at 
once,  to-day.  Do  not  write  to  her.  I 
will  call  and  explain  it  all  to  her — to 
Mrs.  Wanfell." 

"Yes —  you  will  do  that — and  I  am 
ill,  very  ill.  Thank  you.  Don't  you 
think  I  ought  to  see  her  before  I 
go?" 

"I  do  not.  Promise  me  that  you 
will  not." 

"I  will  not — see  her.  Oh,  never, 
never!" 

"Stay  away  three  weeks." 
(  10  ) 


A    CONSULTATION 

"How  can  I?" 

"You  must.  Now  go." 

"Where  is  my  hat?" 

"Here.  Now  I  have  your  word.  In 
a  day  or  two  you  will  be  glad  you 
went." 

John  left  him,  saying :  "  Thank  you. 
Yes,  I  am  sick  enough — soul-sick." 

The  older  man  went  with  him  to 
the  door.  Returning,  he  sat  down  and, 
playing  with  his  watch-guard,  was  still 
a  little  while,  and  then  spoke  aloud 
the  final  conclusion  of  his  reflections, 
which  was  a  way  he  had: 

"  It  is  very  easy  to  let  a  man  die.  I 
was  wise  to  make  him  run  away  from 
it.  If  he  had  done  his  best  and  that 
rascal  died,  he  would  have  lived  in  the 
shadow  of  remorse,  where  no  crime 
had  been ;  and  if — "  Here  he  ceased  to 
speak.  But  by  and  by  he  murmured, 
as  he  rose:  "What  of  the  woman?  A 


LITTLE    STORIES 

touch  and  a  look  may  say,  'Do  it!'  He 
has  told  but  half." 

The  younger  man  went  to  Aiken 
and  played  golf.  At  the  close  of  a  fort 
night  he  received  two  telegrams;  one 
was  from  the  doctor.  He  went  home 
the  next  day,  but  did  not  go  to  the 
funeral  of  Wanfell. 

As  the  years  went  by,  some  of  his 
friends  wondered  why  he  did  not 
marry  the  woman  he  had  once  loved. 
When  the  old  doctor's  wife  was  thus 
curious,  her  husband  said  that  he  be 
lieved  he  knew  why,  but  would  never 
tell. 

When  urged  to  explain  himself,  he 
stated,  at  last,  that  it  was  all  clearly 
set  forth  in  the  New  Testament. 


II 

TWO    MEN 


TWO    MEN 


'THESE    OUGHT    YE    TO    DO,    AND    NOT    TO    LEAVE    THE 
OTHERS    UNDONE." 


f  A.  PALE  young  man  sat  down  on  a 
bench  in  the  park  behind  the  reser- 
S  voir  on  Forty-second  Street.  He  put 
a  torn  bag  of  tools  under  the  bench. 
{  A  small,  sallow  man  came  behind 
him.  He  stooped  to  steal  the  bag. 
r  The  pale  man  turned,  and  said  in  a 
/slow,  tired  way:  "Drop  that.  It  ain't 
/  worth  stealing." 

The   other  said:   "Not  if  you're 


The  pale  man  set  the  bag  at  his 

feet,  and  said  : 

"It  's  a  poor  business  you  're  in." 
"You  don't  look  as  if  yours  was 

any  better."  He  sat  down.  "What's 

your  callin'?" 

(  15  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

"  I  'm  an  iron-worker;  bridge- work." 

"Don't  look  strong  enough." 

"That's  so.  I  'm  just  out  of  Belle- 
vue  Hospital;  got  hurt  three  months 
ago." 

"I  'm  just  out  of  hospital,  too." 

"What  hospital?"  said  the  bridge- 
builder. 

"Sing  Sing." 

"What?  Jail?" 

"Yes;  not  bad  in  winter,  either. 
There 's  a  society  helps  a  fellow  after 
you  quit  that  hospital.  Gives  you  good 
clothes,  too." 

"Clothes?  Is  that  so?" 

"Gets  you  work—" 

"Work— good  God!  I  wish  they'd 
get  me  some." 

"You  ain't  bad  enough.  Go  and 
grab  somethin'.  Get  a  short  sentence; 
first  crime.  Come  out,  and  get  looked 
after  by  nice  ladies." 
(  16) 


TWO    MEN 

My  God!" 

Didn't  they  do  nothin'  for  you 
when  you  got  out  of  that  hospital?" 

"No!  Why  the  devil  should  they? 
I  'm  only  an  honest  mechanic.  Are 
you  goin'?" 

He  felt  his  loneliness. 

"Yes;  I've  got  to  go  after  that  job. 
It'll  give  me  time  to  look  about  me. 
Gosh!  but  you  look  bad!  Good-by." 

The  sallow  man  rose,  looked  back, 
jingled  the  few  coins  in  his  pocket, 
hesitated,  and  walked  away  whistling. 

The  pale  man  sat  still  on  the  bench, 
staring  down  at  the  ragged  bag  of 
tools  at  his  feet. 


Ill 
HAROUN    THE    CALIPH 


HAROUN    THE    CALIPH 


JLLAROUN  the  Caliph,  walking  by  night 
in  Bagdad,  saw  one  standing  without 
the  great  closed  doors  of  the  bazaar 
of  the  gold-workers  with  naught  upon 
him  but  his  frail  khamees,  and  it  was 
cold.  "Whose  art  thou?"  said  the  Ca 
liph. 

"  I  am  a  merchant  of  amulets,"  re 
turned  the  man.  "I  am  starving,  and 
I  sold  my  coverings  one  by  one,  as  a 
tree  in  autumn  letteth  a  fierce  wind 
have  its  leaves,  rather  than  fall  a  heap 
and  die.  I  am  a  child  of  misery  from 
my  birth." 

Then  said  the  Caliph,  "Take  this, 
eat,  drink,  and  be  merry,"  and  he  gave 
him  the  great  ruby  which  men  call  the 
"Eye  of  Love,"  and  went  on  his  way 


LITTLE    STORIES 

in  peace.  The  next  night  Haroun  came 
again,  and,  finding  the  merchant  of 
^amulets  about  to  die  for  want  of  food, 
cried,  " Alas!  why  did  not  you  sell  my 
jewel,  and  live?" 

Then  answered  the  dying  man: 
"  Some  said  it  was  false,  some  said  it 
was  stolen,  and  none  would  buy.  It  is 
as  when  Allah  gives  a  too  great  gift 
of  soul  to  a  lowly  man — it  getteth 
him  only  the  food  of  mockery.  But 
now  I  have  the  amulet  called  death, 
and  I  shall  no  more  hunger  or  care." 

Upon  this  the  man  died,  and  the 
Caliph  took  the  "Eye  of  Love"  from 
the  clutch  of  death  and  went  his  way 
hand  in  hand  with  thought. 


IV 

THE    WATERS    OF    OBLIVION 


THE    WATERS    OF    OBLIVION 


JTwo  years  after  the  Mutiny,  John 
Hughes,  a  young  captain  of  infantry, 
was  stationed  at  Meerut.  This  man 
knew  many  tongues  and  loved  to 
wrestle  with  dialects.  One  hot  day  in 
the  bazaar  he  entered  a  book-shop  and 
among  piles  of  trash  fell  upon  a  thin 
pamphlet.  It  was  stitched  between 
purple  paper  covers,  and,  as  he  soon 
made  out,  was  a  manuscript  in  Pali. 

Now,  Pali  is  a  tongue  which  few 
white  men  understand.  It  delighted 
the  captain,  who  paid  a  trifle  and  put 
the  leaves  in  his  pocket.  He  dined 
at  the  mess.  Returning  late  that  night 
to  his  quarters,  he  found  the  book  on 
his  table,  where  his  servant  had  laid  it. 

He  made  himself  comfortable, 
(  25  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

lighted  a  cheroot,  and  took  up  the 
pamphlet.  Yes,  it  was  written  with 
care  in  Pali,  of  which  he  knew  some 
thing.  He  remembered  that  a  certain 
reverend,  a  mission  priest,  had  made 
a  full  vocabulary  of  this  tongue.  He 
got  up  and  after  some  search  found 
it,  and  sat  down  again  to  enjoy  the 
pleasing  exasperations  of  a  language 
of  which  he  knew  enough  to  be  pre- 
assured  of  the  difficulties  it  presented. 
But  first  he  looked  the  little  book  over. 
The  covers,  of  a  purple  which  was  un 
like  other  purples,  were  faded,  worn, 
and  frayed.  Usually  these  second-hand 
bazaar  books  had  queer  smells  by 
which  their  past  might  be  guessed. 
The  little  purple  manuscript  had  a 
faint  fragrance  which  vainly  taxed  his 
remembrance  for  the  place  where  he 
had  known  it. 

As  he  ran  over  the  pages  he  saw 
(  26  ) 


THE    WATERS    OF    OBLIVION 

that  some  one  had  made  marginal 
comments  of  small  importance.  At 
the  end  of  the  book  were  written  four 
lines,  in  a  very  minute  English  script, 
and,  as  he  concluded,  by  a  woman's 
hand.  The  ink  had  faded  and  it  was  so 
hard  to  read  by  candle-light  that  he 
gave  up  the  effort,  thinking  that  it 
would  be  easier  to  make  out  by  day. 

The  book  was  his  real  attraction. 
He  settled  himself  for  a  bout  with  its 
meanings,  as  eager  as  a  traveller  in  a 
strange  land. 

On  the  inside  of  the  front  cover  was 
written  in  a  large  masculine  hand: 

" This  Book  was  once  a  Man'' 

The  phrase  pleased  him. 

"I  like  that,"  he  said  aloud.  "That 
ought  to  be  put  over  the  door  of  a  li 
brary."  He  wondered  if  it  were  a  quo 
tation,  or  if  the  reading  of  the  manu 
script  had  prompted  it. 
(27) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

He  looked  around  the  room.  There 
were  books  everywhere,  on  chair  and 
table:  a  few  in  his  own  language,— 
the  greater  books, — and  many  in  the 
tongues  of  the  East.  Some  were  na 
tive  manuscripts.  He  felt  for  a  time  as 
though  the  room  were  spirit-haunted. 
A  dreamy  pleasure  in  the  thought 
kept  his  fancy  busy  for  a  while,  and 
he  said  aloud:  "Yes,  every  book  was 


once  a  man." 


At  last  he  returned  to  the  purple- 
tinted  little  volume,  saying  to  himself: 
"So  two  other  English  people  have 
handled  and  perhaps  read  it."  That 
alone  gave  the  script  unusual  interest, 
for  few  of  his  own  race  read  Pali. 

It  began  thus : 

"I,  Abdallah,  a  man  of  Ceylon,  on 

the  ninth  day  of  the  seventh  moon, 

being  now  in  my  thirty-first  year,  here 

set  down  certain  things  for  my  own 

(  28  ) 


THE  WATERS  OF  OBLIVION 
remembrance.  I  shall  write  of  my 
search  for  the  Well  of  the  Waters  of 
Forgetfulness.  I  am  assured  by  the 
wise  moonshee  Salak  Bey  that  in  them 
a  man  may  wash  away  remembrance 
and  be  as  the  dead  who  are  born  again, 
without  memories  of  the  life  they  have 
lost.  Thus  shall  I  cease  to  know  that 
in  anger  I  slew  him  I  loved  best,  my 
father's  son." 

"By  George!"  said  the  captain. 
"What  a  queer  find!" 

He  sat  a  little  while  with  the  book 
let  open  on  his  knee.  Had  it  been 
written  in  English  and  had  he  been  in 
his  own  land,  he  would  have  smiled  at 
this  dreamer  or  mystic.  But  the  East 
is  the  East  and  he  had  lived  much 
among  its  people. 

He  returned  to  the  pages  and  slowly 
and  painfully  made  out  their  meaning, 
finding  it  even  harder  because  of  being 
(  29  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

in  written  characters.  There  were  in 
all,  or  had  been,  as  he  counted,  sixty- 
three  pages.  Two  were  missing  in  part, 
as  he  saw  by  the  torn  remainders. 

For  the  most  part  it  was  a  record 
of  distances  travelled,  of  visits  to  noted 
temples,  and  of  vast  foot-sore  wander 
ings.  Here  and  there  were  bits  of  more 
personal  reflection.  Over  these  the 
captain  paused,  being  a  man  of  imagi 
native  turn  and  able  to  enter  sympa 
thetically  into  the  ways  of  the  native 
mind. "  Ah ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  he  made 
clear  to  himself  this  passage : 

"If  I  find  what  I  seek  and  so  lose 
remembrance  of  all  that  has  been, 
whither  will  have  gone  the  thoughts 
of  my  life  ?  Shall  I  never  meet  them 
again  ?  Surely.  The  thoughts  of  a  man 
do  not  die,  but  are  fragments  of  the 
eternal  mind,  and  go  hence  whither 
they  came ;  being  as  children  that  are 
(  30) 


THE    WATERS    OF    OBLIVION 

born,  and,  dying, live  again  elsewhere." 

A  little  further  he  read:  "If  I  lose 
all  memory,  and  have  release  from  the 
hell  of  seeing  the  dead  always  at  my 
feet,  in  his  blood,  I  shall  forget,  too, 
my  wife  and  my  son.  I  must  decide 
to  keep  my  anguish  and  my  love — or 
to  part  with  both.  I  have  made  my 
choice." 

Again  he  read: 

"I  have  lost  by  my  own  act  a  man 
dear  to  me.  I  have  both  the  grief  and 
the  sin.  Long  have  I  wandered  in  the 
land  of  sorrow.  There  every  man  is 
alone,  and  there  is  no  language,  for  in 
the  land  of  sorrow  there  is  but  one 
inhabitant." 

"Great  Buddha!  but  that  is  all 
pretty  grim,"  said  the  reader,  and  went 
on  with  rapt  attention.  As  he  read, 
the  manuscript  became  harder  to  de 
cipher,  the  ink  paler,  the  letters  ill- 
(  31  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

formed,  blurred,  or  giving  signs  of 
tremor.  At  last  he  came  on  a  date, 
and  knew  that  the  writer  must  have 
been  many  years  wandering.  A  man 
in  the  vigor  of  life  wrote  the  first  lines ; 
it  was  an  old  man  who  wrote  the  last. 

"Clearly  insane  from  remorse," 
thought  the  captain. 

It  was  now  far  into  the  night,  but 
still  the  indistinct  pages  held  him,  as 
he  read  on  and  on,  finding  now  and 
then  that  words  he  should  have  known 
well  obliged  him  to  pause  and  search 
for  elusive  meanings.  He  concluded  at 
length  that  his  brain  was  tired  and 
had  the  uncertainty  of  action  which 
over-tired  muscles  exhibit.  He  reluc 
tantly  laid  aside  the  little  book  and  un 
dressed.  When  ready  for  bed,  his  curi 
osity  prevailing,  he  took  it  up  again, 
reading  with  increase  of  difficulty. 
Near  the  close  he  found  this  passage, 
(  32) 


THE    WATERS    OF    OBLIVION 

which  at  once  reassured  his  reason  as 
to  the  unhappy  writer's  delusion : 

"At  last  I  knew  at  morning  that 
it  was  near,  and  now  at  evening  I 
have  found  the  valley,  and  the  seven 
red  stones  as  the  moonshee  described 
them. 

"I  am  here,  where  the  years  and 
long  travel  have  brought  me.  The  vale 
slopes  sharply  and  is  clad  with  bam 
boos.  A  path  winds  among  them,  and 
here  is  that  I  seek.  An  abounding 
spring  rises  up,  in  vast  flow,  and  must 
return  whither  it  came,  for  it  has  no 
outlet.  The  earth  continually  takes 
back  what  it  gave.  This  is  as  I  was 
told.  The  Well  of  the  Waters  of  For- 
getfulness.  Here  I  have  sat  long  in 
thought.  At  last  I  take  out  my  pen 
and  write.  Soon  all  the  past  will  fade 
by  degrees  and  never  after  shall  I 
know  it.  Even  what  I  write  will  be  as 
(  83 ') 


LITTLE    STORIES 

if  it  were  the  story  of  what  another 
wrote.  My  brother  will  be  avenged 
even  in  my  relief,  because  I  shall  no 
more  see  those  I  love,  or  know  them 
as  my  own.  I  sit  here  in  the  shadows 
and  think  on  what  has  been  and  what 
will  be.  I  shall  feel  the  world  of 
memories  fading  like  a  tablet  that  is 
cleansed.  It  will  come  slowly;  I  shall 
feel  the  joy  of  forgetting. 

"I  have  washed  in  the  spring  and 
wondered.  It  is  not  like  the  waters  of 
earth.  It  does  not  wet  the  hand  or 
head,  but  it  is  as  if  a  cool  wind  went 
over  them.  And  now  I  dip  in  it  my 
garments,  and  write  in  haste,  being 
aware  that  all  my  past  life  is  growing 
dim  to  me.  Let  my  latest  words  be  of 
thanks." 

Here  followed  a  few  lines,  under 
which  the  hand  of  a  woman  had  writ 
ten  the  words  which  the  reader  had 


THE    WATERS    OF    OBLIVION 

observed  on  his  first  look  at  the  manu 
script.  He  was  now  too  eager  to  wait. 
He  found  a  magnifying-glass,  and 
then  easily  read  this  rendering  of  the 
final  lines : 

By  the  waters  of  oblivion 

I  sat  down  and  wept ; 
By  the  waters  of  oblivion 

Life  slumbered  and  slept. 

Then  she  had  added:  "Would  that  I 
also  could  find  them — or  forgiveness." 
Again  the  captain  sat  quiet  in 
thought,  wondering  who  and  what  the 
woman  was.  The  strangeness  of  this 
wild  story  held  him,  and  he  smiled  at 
the  feeling  of  how  near  he  was  to  ac 
cepting  it  as  true.  But  he  had  felt  be 
fore  the  spell  of  the  Eastern  world. 
At  last  he  rose  and  looked  about  him. 
He  had  a  baffling  sensation  of  every 
thing  in  the  room  being  remote  from 
him,  and  of  a  little  trouble  in  recalling 
(  35  ) 


LITTLE  STORIES 

something  to  which  he  was  to  attend 
next  day.  He  dismissed  it,  acknowl 
edging  anew  the  scholar's  experience 
of  the  effect  of  mental  tension,  which 
had  gone  far  beyond  the  mere  needs  of 
the  translation.  He  went  to  bed,  and 
lay  a  long  while  thinking  about  the 
man's  madness,  and  seeing  the  gaunt 
white  figure  in  the  bamboo  grove, 
bending  over  what  he  believed  to  be 
the  waters  of  oblivion.  Then  he  slept. 

At  morning  his  servant  awakened 
him,  and  said:  "The  bath  is  ready; 
the  sahib's  garments  are  here.  The 
sahib  was  hard  to  waken,  and  he  will 
be  late  for  parade." 

The  young  man  sat  up,  and  said: 
"Who  are  you?  Where  am  I?" 

The  man  repeated  his  statement,  as 
Hughes  got  out  of  bed. 

The  servant  left  him. 

Hughes  said  long  afterwards,  when 
(  36  ) 


THE    WATERS    OF    OBLIVION 

he  told  me  this  tale : 

"I  sat  down  and  tried  to  recall 
something  which  I  had  done  the  night 
before.  I  could  not.  I  found  the  room 
unusual,  rather  than  altogether  new. 
I  forgot  the  parade,  and  began  to  look 
at  this  and  that.  I  was  like  a  ship  in 
a  fog  which  now  clears,  and  leaves 
only  a  thin  mist,  and  then  isolates  the 
ship  in  gray  aloofness. 

"  I  remembered  that  I  must  clap  my 
hands  when  I  wanted  something.  I  did 
so ;  my  man  came  back.  I  asked : 

"'What  are  these  for?'  pointing  to 
my  equipments. 

"He  said:  'The  captain  sahib's  uni 
form.' 

"I  took  up  a  photograph,  and  asked 
who  it  was.  It  seemed  to  me  a  beauti 
ful  woman. 

'"Great  Allah!  it  is  the  lady  the 
captain  sahib  will  marry.' 
(  37  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

"I  laughed,  and  said  inanely:  'I — 
I  don't  remember.' 

"On  this  the  man  fled. 

"  I  recall  nothing  else,  but  they  said 
I  slept  two  days.  An  ass  of  a  doctor 
declared  I  had  had  sunstroke.  It  was 
nonsense.  I  was  up  the  third  day,  and 
as  fit  as  anybody.  However,  something 
was  wrong  with  me.  I  think  that  now 
I  know  very  well  what  it  was.  I  was 
a  month  at  Simla  before  I  entirely  re 
covered  my  memory,  and  to  this  day 
the  photograph  of  my  wife  has,  now 
and  then,  that  curious  look  of  far-away 
ness  I  had  felt  about  things  in  my  room. 

"Soon  after  our  marriage  I  told  my 
wife  this  rather  queer  story.  The  next 
day  she  burned  the  book,  and,  as  she 
told  me,  did  not  even  open  it,  which 
I  thought  wise,  interesting,  and  un 
usual.  As  for  the  sunstroke,  that  is 
bosh,  and  India  is  a  very  bewildering 
country."  (  38  ) 


V 

CONVERSION 


CONVERSION 


A.  SUFI  dervish,  the  father  of  sorrow 
and  the  son  of  grief,  sat  at  night  by 
the  sea.  The  waves  like  sleek  serpents 
writhed  at  his  feet,  and  hissed  forth, 
"Come,  let  us  strangle  thee  and  thy 
griefs,  and  make  an  end." 

"Ah,  welcome  death !"  he  answered. 
Then  a  greater  billow,  rolling  in,  cov 
ered  him,  and  went  back,  and  the  man 
was  very  wet.  Thereupon  he  went 
home  and  dried  his  clothes. 


VI 

A    MAN    AND    A    WOMAN 


A    MAN    AND    A    WOMAN 


IT  was  midnight  and  very  dark.  At 
times  the  moon  shone  clear  between 
hurrying  storm-clouds.  The  river  was 
in  flood  and  over  the  wharves.  The 
waters,  checked  by  the  stone  piers, 
rose  high,  and  swept  in  tumult  under 
the  arches  of  the  bridge.  Over  it  a  man 
walked  with  quick  steps.  He  stood 
still  midway,  and  stared  at  the  black 
current  as  it  swept  on  with  here  and 
there  flashes  of  foam. 

Along  the  farther  footway  a  woman 
moved  slowly.  The  man  climbed  to 
the  parapet  and  threw  himself  into 
the  flood. 

He  rose,  aware  of  the  instinctive 
desire  to  live.  But  death  was  sweeter. 
He  threw  up  his  arms  that  he  might 
(  45  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

sink,  and  have  his  will,  and  die.  A 
white  thing  went  by  him.  Something 
stronger  than  the  longing  for  death 
mastered  him.  He  caught  at  the  wo 
man,  and  held  up  her  head.  He  must 
save  her — he  knew  that.  He  set  his 
skilled  strength  to  the  task.  The  flashes 
of  light  on  the  water  went  by.  The  wo 
man  made  no  struggle.  At  last  there 
were  no  more  wharves,  and  all  was 
dark.  He  felt  the  water  to  be  less  wil 
ful.  By  degrees  he  neared  the  shore, 
touched  with  his  feet  the  soft  ooze  be 
neath,  and  staggered  up  a  grass  slope 
with  his  burden.  Was  she  dead?  It 
seemed  horrible.  No !  He  felt  her  heart 
beat.  She  was  young  and  slight ;  more 
he  could  not  see. 

He  laid  her  down,  and  began  to 

move  and  chafe  her  limbs,  saying  to 

himself:  "Why  did  I  save  her?  She 

had  a  right  to  choose  death."  Then  he 

(  46) 


A    MAN    AND    A    WOMAN 

laughed  low,  and  said  aloud:  "But  it 
is  she  who  has  saved  me — and  here 
am  I  with  a  half-dead  woman  I  have 
pulled  out  of  the  water  with  no  more 
thought  than  a  dog  gives  to  the  stick 
he  fetches!" 

As  he  thus  murmured,  he  did  not 
cease  from  his  efforts.  After  a  little, 
disturbed  at  his  failure,  he  remem 
bered  what  he  must  do.  He  set  his 
mouth  to  hers,  and  breathed  into  her 
the  breath  of  life.  A  strange  joy  came 
to  him  as  he  knew  that  her  bosom 
moved,  and  she  drew  breath  after 
breath.  He  sat  beside  her,  rubbing  her 
hands,  not  knowing  what  more  to  do. 
Again  and  again  she  moved,  and  at 
last  the  hand  he  held  closed  feebly  on 
his — although  the  woman  was  still 
but  half  alive.  The  weak  grasp  was 
like  an  appeal,  and  the  man  knew  that 
he  had  here  a  thing  to  care  for  and 
(  47  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

assist — a  woman — another  woman! 

Suddenly,  through  the  deep  dark 
ness  of  the  night,  he  heard  her  say : 
"Where  am  I?" 
He  rose  in  haste,  murmuring: 
"My  God!  it  is  my  wife!" 
He  turned  to  leave  her,  hut  could 
not.  Then,  as  she  seemed  less  conscious, 
he  began  again  to  chafe  her  limbs. 

An  hour  went  by  while  she  mut 
tered,  wandering  in  her  speech.  The 
man  listened,  still  rubbing  her  limbs 
with  slow,  mechanic  action.  At  last 
she  sat  up  of  a  sudden  and,  seeing 
nothing  clearly,  for  the  night  was  very 
dark,  said: 

"What  is  all  this?  Who  are  you?" 

"I  am  Harry — Stilla,  you  are  safe." 

The  woman  rose  to  her  knees  with 

a  faint  cry,  and  fell  back  into  his  arms, 

crying : 

"But  I  wanted  to  die!  Oh,  I  did 
(48  ) 


A    MAN    AND    A    WOMAN 

want  to  die !  You  saved  me — why  did 
you  save  "me?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

"But  I  know — you  tried  to  save  an 
unknown  woman.  Thank  you  for  her, 
but  oh,  not — not  for  me." 

He  told  her  all  the  truth,  and  of  his 
own  will  to  die. 

Then  she  fell  upon  his  shoulder  and 
cried  out:  "I  was  dead — and  am  alive 
again.  Will  you — oh,  will  you  not 
believe  me,  Harry?  As  one  come  from 
the  dead  you  must,  you  must." 

"Yes,  I  will  believe  you." 

"I  never — did.  They  lied — " 

"I  believe  you,  Stilla." 

"Let  us  go.  I  am  cold." 

He  helped  her  to  rise,  and  then, 
finding  her  too  feeble  to  walk,  took 
her  in  his  arms. 

"See,"  he  said,  "the  moon  is  out. 
There  is  light— light!" 
(  49  ) 


VII 

A    GHOST    OF    GLORY 


A    GHOST    OF    GLORY 


IT  was  after  dinner,  and  had  just 
struck  three  bells.  The  ward-room  of 
the  Oregon  was  at  its  best.  As  I  was 
not  a  navy  man,  but  only  a  guest, 
all  the  sea-tales  were  let  loose  on  me. 
They  had  been  well  salted  through 
many  voyages  and  perhaps  through 
many  centuries,  but  were  always  ac 
cepted  as  fresh. 

At  last  there  was  a  long  pause, 
and  the  third-watch  officer  ceased  to 
punctuate  the  talk  with  twang  of  the 
banjo. 

The  doctor  said : "  Is  n't  it  your  turn 
now,  Mr.  Smith?" 

I  said:  "  Yes,  I  will  tell  you  a  short 
sea-story  no  one  of  you  has  ever  heard." 

The  first  lieutenant  said  that  was  in- 


LITTLE    STORIES 

credible  and  bets  of  cigars  were  freely 
offered  that  it  would  prove  an  old  fore 
castle  yarn. 

I  took  all  the  bets  and  said  I  hoped 
there  would  be  no  musical  accompani 
ment.  Then  some  one  took  away  the 
third-watch  officer's  instrument  of  tor 
ture,  and  I  told  my  story. 

"In  1864  I  was  sent  by  our  gov 
ernment  to  Great  Britain  on  a  certain 
legal  errand  which  has  no  connection 
with  my  tale.  Having  got  through  with 
a  tedious  business,  I  wandered  about 
England  and  at  last  went  to  Scotland, 
where  certain  matters  on  the  Clyde  in 
terested  -our  people.  For  the  purpose 
of  hearing  how  the  lower  classes  felt 
about  our  Civil  War,  I  used  to  go  of 
an  evening  into  the  inns  in  Glasgow 
where  sailors  collect,  and  take  a  pipe 
and  a  mug  of  ale. 

"One  night  I  fell  in  with  a  hairy 
(  54  ) 


A    GHOST    OF   GLORY 

old  sea-dog  just  come  ashore.  A  glass 
or  two  set  him  talking.  After  a  while 
he  asked  me  if  I  believed  in  ghost 
ships.  I  replied  that  of  course  I  did; 
if  we  had  ghosts  on  shore,  why  not 
on  the  sea? 

"'Well/  he  said,  'if  you'd  'a'  said 
no,  I  would  n't  have  went  on.'  He  did 
go  on,  and  this  is  what  my  sailorman 
said: 

"'I  was  in  a  collier  last  week, — 
that  was  June  the  19th, — runnin'  up 
the  coast.  We  were  about  eight  miles 
off  Flamborough  Head.  A  Sunday 
mornin'  it  was,  and  just  struck  seven 
bells.  It  was  rainin'  solid  and  blowin' 
a  gale;  hadn't  no  reefs  in  the  wind, 
nuther.  I  was  on  the  bow  lookin'  out 
ahead.  On  a  sudden  the  rain  let  up  a 
bit,  and  there  on  the  port  bow,  plain 
as  this  pipe,  was  the  darnedest-lookin' 
ship  I  ever  seed.  She  was  all  a  wrack 
(  55  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

and  half  covered  with  seaweed.  Her 
stays  was  half  gone  and  sails  tore  and 
ropes  hangin'  about.  I  sung  out  to  the 
mate  to  come  quick,  and  he  come,  and 
the  master  and  me,  all  three,  seed  her. 
At  first  the  mate  said  she  was  a  dere 
lict.  There  was  no  one  on  deck,  and 
she  was  havin'  pretty  much  her  own 
way.  Might  'a'  bin  a  quarter-mile  away, 
or  less;  anyway,  she  was  plain  to  be 
seen.  The  mate  looked  at  her  with  the 
glass,  and  he  said  she  had  guns  on 
deck  and  was  a  kind  of  old-time-lookin' 
war-ship.  The  queerest  of  all  was,  she 
had  a  flag  at  her  mizzen;  I  saw  it  easy. 
It  was  like  that  damned  Yankee  rag, 
but  didn't  have  so  many  stars.  Just 
as  the  rain  was  a-thickenin' — now, 
don't  say  I'm  a  liar,  'cause  I'm  not.' 

"I  gave  that  man  my  entire  trust, 
and  I  said  as  much. 

" '  Well,  just  as  she  was  gettin'  dim- 
(  56  ) 


A    GHOST    OF    GLORY 

mer,  she  began  to  let  go  with  them 
guns.  "My  gosh!"  says  the  mate, and 
save  my  heart,  but  we  counted  thir 
teen  guns,  one  after  another,  and  no 
time  lost.  Then  the  master  he  said  he  'd 
had  enough  and  too  much,  and  we 
went  about.  We  didn't  see  her  no 
more.  I  suppose  you  don't  think  I  saw 
that  ship.  I  was  n't  in  liquor,  nor  the 
mate  nuther.' 

"'And  you  heard  the  guns?' 

"'I  did,  and  them  guns  was  heard 
ashore,  too.  I  know  two  men  and  a 
preacher  heered  'em.' 

"After  that  my  sailorman  went 
away.  I  think  the  evidence  good,  be 
cause  the  man  who  saw  the  ship  did 
not  take  it  for  anything  except  a 
strange  sea-sight  and  because  he  could 
not  have  invented  just  that  number  of 
guns  as  fired." 

When  I  had  told  my  tale  the  first 
(  57  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

lieutenant  said:  "That  is  a  fine  yarn, 
but  what  the  deuce  had  the  thirteen 
guns  to  do  with  it?" 

Some  of  the  others  smiled,  and 
the  doctor  said  it  was  not  very  plain 
to  him;  such  stories  were  common 
enough.  The  third-watch  officer,  who 
writes  sea-songs  and  sonnets,  said: 

"I  don't  think  one  of  you  got  on 
to  it.  Why,  that  ship  was  the  Son 
Homme  Richard." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "and  log  this  too,  you 
unimaginative  sea-dogs.  The  Kear- 
sarge  sank  the  Alabama  off  Cher 
bourg,  that  Sunday  morning,  at  what 
you  call  seven  bells." 

They  agreed  that  it  was  a  first-class 
sea-story  and  we  were  told  of  two 
other  ghost  ships,  until  at  last  the  old 
engineer,  who  had  retired  into  his 
beard  and  such  a  column  of  smoke  as 
went  before  the  Hebrews,  remarked: 
(  58  ) 


A   GHOST    OF   GLORY 

"It's  good  and  it's  true,  but  it's 
only  half  new.  Mr.  Smith  has  lost  his 
cigars." 

I  asked  for  proof,  and  the  officer 
replied : 

"Here  it  is:  Tom  Bushby,  our  old 
quartermaster  on  the  Hartford,— 
he 's  laid  by  now  at  the  Naval  Home, 
—Tom  told  me  in  1850  that  in  1812 
he  was  a  boy  on  the  privateer  Rattle 
snake.  They  were  before  the  wind 
and  off  that  very  same  Flamborough 
Head.  It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening  on  the  nineteenth  day  of  Au 
gust.  There  was  no  fog.  As  they  were 
in  hostile  seas,  the  lookout  was  smart. 
This  same  ship  was  seen  a  mile  away ; 
she  fired  her  thirteen  guns,  too.  He 
said  they  tacked  to  get  a  clearer  sight 
of  her,  but,  somehow,  she  was  gone. 
Tom  said  she  just  settled  down  and 
sank  quietly  under  the  smoke  of 
(  59) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

her  guns,  with  that  same  old  flag 
flying." 

"Well,  what  then?"  said  the  first 
lieutenant. 

"What  then?  Why,  just  at  that 
hour  and  on  that  day  the  Constitution 
disposed  of  the  Guerriere" 

"Bets  lost,  Mr.  Smith,"  said  the 
doctor. 

The  first  lieutenant  remarked  skep 
tically  that  he  would  like  to  know 
whether  in  that  last  yarn  there  was 
any  time-allowance  for  difference  in 
longitude,  as  the  capture  of  the  Guer- 
riere  took  place  off  the  coast  of  Nova 
Scotia. 

"Oh,  don't!"  said  the  gentleman 
who  made  verses.  "You  don't  believe 
in  anything." 

"Yes,  by  Jove!  I  do." 

"In  what,  sir?  Trot  out  your  creed. 
You  don't  own  any  one  belief  that 
(60  ) 


A    GHOST    OF    GLORY 

is  n't  foggy  with  doubt.  What  do  you 
believe?" 

"I  believe  in  the  flag  and  in  rapid- 
fire  guns." 

"Good!"  said  I.  "Let's  turn  in." 

And  it  struck  four  bells. 


(  61  ) 


VIII 

THE    WISE    MAN'S    SACK 


THE    WISE    MAN'S    SACK 


AT  noon  prayer,  on  a  Friday,  in  Ra- 
mazan,  the  Caliph  looked  from  the 
Maksurah  and  saw  the  Khateb  ex 
horting  the  many  who  were  poor  or 
sad  by  reason  of  death,  and  who  daily 
went  to  and  fro  from  the  house  of 
weeping  to  the  grave  of  loss,  and  found 
neither  peace  in  one  nor  forgetfulness 
in  the  other.  At  last,  seeing  that  none 
shed  their  sorrows  or  sought  comfort, 
but  still  slept  on  the  bed  of  grief  and 
watered  the  pillows  of  lamentation, 
the  Khateb  descended  from  his  seat, 
and  sat  himself  by  the  fountain  in  the 
courtyard,  and  one  by  one  repeated 
the  Hundred  Sacred  Names,  and  mur 
mured  "the  words  light  on  the  tongues 
of  men  and  heavy  in  the  balance  of 
(  65  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

God."  Then  came  one,  a  teller  of  tales, 
and  the  son  of  a  teller  of  tales,  and 
the  father  of  all  such  as  listen  to  a 
tale  and  love  it.  And  as  the  Khateb 
murmured  and  mumbled,  the  teller 
of  tales  lifted  his  voice  to  the  faithful 
and  said: 

"  Once  in  a  strange  land  a  king  took 
a  city  and,  meaning  to  destroy  it,  bade 
each  dweller  therein  to  carry  away 
with  him  what  most  he  valued.  Some 
took  gold  and  some  food,  but  one  a 
great  sack.  Said  the  king,  'What  is 
that  you  carry?'  And  the  man  re 
plied,  'It  is  full  of  laughter.'  To  him 
returned  the  king,  'You  are  wise.  I 
have  forgotten  how  to  laugh.  Divide 
with  me.'  Whereon  said  the  man,  'Al 
lah  teacheth  charity.  Take  what  you 
will.'  And  the  king  took,  and  grew 
gay  with  the  wine  of  mirth,  and  said, 
'This  shall  ransom  the  city.'  As  for 
(66) 


THE  WISE  MAN'S  SACK 
him  who  bore  the  sack,  he  made  him 
lord  over  all  who  cannot  smile." 

Such  as  heard  this  story  were  moved 
to  merriment  and  forgot  to  weep.  But 
the  saint  cried,  "When  death  taketh 
thy  city,  canst  thou  carry  away  a  sack 
of  laughter?" 

"  I  know  not,"  said  the  teller  of  tales ; 
"Allah,  who  maketh  all,  is  maker  of 
mirth  as  of  grief.  Some  say,  'Who  wins, 
laughs;'  but  I,  'Who  laughs,  wins.' 
Therefore  let  us  fill  our  mule  bags 
with  laughter  and  our  camel  bags  with 
mirth,  and  wait  for  the  king  to  destroy 
this  city  of  earth." 


(67) 


IX 

A    DILEMMA 


A    DILEMMA 


I  WAS  just  thirty-seven  when  my 
Uncle  Philip  died.  A  week  before 
that  event  he  sent  for  me;  and  here 
let  me  say  that  I  had  never  set  eyes 
on  him.  He  hated  my  mother,  but  I 
do  not  know  why.  She  told  me  long 
before  his  last  illness  that  I  need  ex 
pect  nothing  from  my  father's  brother. 
He  was  an  inventor,  an  able  and  in 
genious  mechanical  engineer,  and  had 
made  much  money  by  his  improve 
ment  in  turbine-wheels.  He  was  a 
bachelor;  lived  alone,  cooked  his  own 
meals,  and  collected  precious  stones, 
especially  rubies  and  pearls.  From  the 
time  he  made  his  first  money  he  had 
this  mania.  As  he  grew  richer,  the  de 
sire  to  possess  rare  and  costly  gems 


LITTLE    STORIES 

became  stronger.  When  he  bought  a 
new  stone,  he  carried  it  in  his  pocket 
for  a  month  and  now  and  then  took  it 
out  and  looked  at  it.  Then  it  was  added 
to  the  collection  in  his  safe  at  the  trust 
company. 

At  the  time  he  sent  for  me  I  was  a 
clerk,  and  poor  enough.  Remember 
ing  my  mother's  words,  his  message 
gave  me,  his  sole  relative,  no  new 
hopes ;  but  I  thought  it  best  to  go. 

When  I  sat  down  by  his  bedside, 
he  began,  with  a  malicious  grin: 

"I  suppose  you  think  me  queer.  I 
will  explain."  What  he  said  was  cer 
tainly  queer  enough.  "I  have  been  liv 
ing  on  an  annuity  into  which  I  put  my 
fortune.  In  other  words,  I  have  been, 
as  to  money,  concentric  half  of  my  life 
to  enable  me  to  be  as  eccentric  as  I 
pleased  the  rest  of  it.  Now  I  repent  of 
my  wickedness  to  you  all,  and  desire 


A   DILEMMA 

to  live  in  the  memory  of  at  least  one 
of  my  family.  You  think  I  am  poor 
and  have  only  my  annuity.  You  will 
be  profitably  surprised.  I  have  never 
parted  with  my  precious  stones;  they 
will  be  yours.  You  are  my  sole  heir. 
I  shall  carry  with  me  to  the  other 
world  the  satisfaction  of  making  one 
man  happy. 

"No  doubt  you  have  always  had 
expectations,  and  I  desire  that  you 
should  continue  to  expect.  My  jewels 
are  in  my  safe.  There  is  nothing  else 
left." 

When  I  thanked  him  he  grinned  all 
over  his  lean  face,  and  said: 

"You  will  have  to  pay  for  my  fu 
neral." 

I  must  say  that  I  never  looked  for 
ward  to  any  expenditure  with  more 
pleasure  than  to  what  it  would  cost 
me  to  put  him  away  in  the  earth.  As 


LITTLE    STORIES 

I  rose  to  go,  he  said: 

"The  rubies  are  valuable.  They  are 
in  my  safe  at  the  trust  company.  Be 
fore  you  unlock  the  box,  be  very  care 
ful  to  read  a  letter  which  lies  on  top 
of  it;  and  be  sure  not  to  shake  the 
box."  I  thought  this  odd.  "Don't  come 
back.  It  won't  hasten  things." 

He  died  that  day  week,  and  was 
handsomely  buried.  The  day  after,  his 
will  was  found,  leaving  me  his  heir.  I 
opened  his  safe  and  found  in  it  nothing 
but  an  iron  box,  evidently  of  his  own 
making,  for  he  was  a  skilled  workman 
and  very  ingenious.  The  box  was 
heavy  and  strong,  about  ten  inches 
long,  eight  inches  wide  and  ten  inches 
high.  On  it  lay  a  letter  to  me.  It  ran 
thus: 

"DEAR  TOM:  This  box  contains  a 
large  number  of  very  fine  pigeon- 
blood  rubies  and  a  fair  lot  of  diamonds ; 


A    DILEMMA 

one  is  blue — a  beauty.  There  are  hun 
dreds  of  pearls — one  the  famous 
green  pearl  and  a  necklace  of  blue 
pearls,  for  which  any  woman  would 
sell  her  soul — or  her  affections."  I 
thought  of  Susan.  "I  wish  you  to  con 
tinue  to  have  expectations  and  con 
tinuously  to  remember  your  dear  un 
cle.  I  would  have  left  these  stones  to 
some  charity,  but  I  hate  the  poor  as 
much  as  I  hate  your  mother's  son, — 
yes,  rather  more. 

"The  box  contains  an  interesting 
mechanism,  which  will  act  with  cer 
tainty  as  you  unlock  it,  and  explode 
ten  ounces  of  my  improved,  supersen- 
sitive  dynamite — no,  to  be  accurate, 
there  are  only  nine  and  a  half  ounces. 
Doubt  me,  and  open  it,  and  you  will 
be  blown  to  atoms.  Believe  me,  and 
you  will  continue  to  nourish  expecta 
tions  which  will  never  be  fulfilled.  As 
(  75) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

a  considerate  man,  I  counsel  extreme 
care  in  handling  the  box.  Don't  forget 
your  affectionate 

"UNCLE." 

I  stood  appalled,  the  key  in  my 
hand.  Was  it  true?  Was  it  a  lie?  I  had 
spent  all  my  savings  on  the  funeral, 
and  was  poorer  than  ever. 

Remembering  the  old  man's  oddity, 
his  malice,  his  cleverness  in  mechanic 
arts,  and  the  patent  explosive  which 
had  helped  to  make  him  rich,  I  began 
to  feel  how  very  likely  it  was  that  he 
had  told  the  truth  in  this  cruel  letter. 

I  carried  the  iron  box  away  to  my 
lodgings,  set  it  down  with  care  in  a 
closet,  laid  the  key  on  it,  and  locked 
the  closet. 

Then  I  sat  down,  as  yet  hopeful, 
and  began  to  exert  my  ingenuity  upon 
ways  of  opening  the  box  without  be 
ing  killed.  There  must  be  a  way, 
(  76  ) 


A    DILEMMA 

After  a  week  of  vain  thinking  I  be 
thought  me,  one  day,  that  it  would  be 
easy  to  explode  the  box  by  unlocking 
it  at  a  safe  distance,  and  I  arranged  a 
plan  with  wires,  which  seemed  as  if  it 
would  answer.  But  when  I  reflected 
on  what  would  happen  when  the  dyna 
mite  scattered  the  rubies,  I  knew  that 
I  should  be  none  the  richer.  For  hours 
at  a  time  I  sat  looking  at  that  box  and 
handling  the  key. 

At  last  I  hung  the  key  on  my  watch- 
guard  ;  but  then  it  occurred  to  me  that 
it  might  be  lost  or  stolen.  Dreading 
this,  I  hid  it,  fearful  that  some  one 
might  use  it  to  open  the  box.  This 
state  of  doubt  and  fear  lasted  for 
weeks,  until  I  became  nervous  and  be 
gan  to  dread  that  some  accident  might 
happen  to  that  box.  A  burglar  might 
come  and  boldly  carry  it  away  and 
force  it  open  and  find  it  was  a  wicked 
(  77  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

fraud  of  my  uncle's.  Even  the  rumble 
and  vibration  caused  by  the  heavy 
vans  in  the  street  became  at  last  a 
terror. 

Worst  of  all,  my  salary  was  re 
duced,  and  I  saw  that  marriage  was 
out  of  the  question. 

In  my  despair  I  consulted  Professor 
Clinch  about  my  dilemma,  and  as  to 
some  safe  way  of  getting  at  the  rubies. 
He  said  that,  if  my  uncle  had  not  lied, 
there  was  none  that  would  not  ruin 
the  stones,  especially  the  pearls,  but 
that  it  was  a  silly  tale  and  altogether 
incredible.  I  offered  him  the  biggest 
ruby  if  he  wished  to  test  his  opinion. 
He  did  not  desire  to  do  so. 

Dr.  Schaff,  my  uncle's  doctor,  be 
lieved  the  old  man's  letter,  and  added 
a  caution,  which  was  entirely  useless, 
for  by  this  time  I  was  afraid  to  be  in 
the  room  with  that  terrible  box. 


A   DILEMMA 

At  last  the  doctor  kindly  warned 
me  that  I  was  in  danger  of  losing  my 
mind  with  too  much  thought  about 
my  rubies.  In  fact,  I  did  nothing  else 
but  contrive  wild  plans  to  get  at  them 
safely.  I  spent  all  my  spare  hours  at 
one  of  the  great  libraries  reading  about 
dynamite.  Indeed,  I  talked  of  it  until 
the  library  attendants,  believing  me  a 
lunatic  or  a  dynamite  fiend,  declined 
to  humor  me,  and  spoke  to  the  po 
lice.  I  suspect  that  for  a  while  I  was 
"shadowed"  as  a  suspicious,  and  pos 
sibly  criminal,  character.  I  gave  up 
the  libraries,  and,  becoming  more  and 
more  fearful,  set  my  precious  box  on 
a  down  pillow,  for  fear  of  its  being 
shaken ;  for  at  this  time  even  the  ab 
surd  possibility  of  its  being  disturbed 
by  an  earthquake  troubled  me.  I  tried 
to  calculate  the  amount  of  shake  need 
ful  to  explode  my  box. 
(  79  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

The  old  doctor,  when  I  saw  him 
again,  begged  me  to  give  up  all 
thought  of  the  matter,  and,  as  I  felt 
how  completely  I  was  the  slave  of  one 
despotic  idea,  I  tried  to  take  the  good 
advice  thus  given  me. 

Unhappily,  I  found,  soon  after,  be 
tween  the  leaves  of  my  uncle's  Bible,  a 
numbered  list  of  the  stones  with  their 
cost  and  much  beside.  It  was  dated 
two  years  before  my  uncle's  death. 
Many  of  the  stones  were  well  known, 
and  their  enormous  value  amazed  me. 

Several  of  the  rubies  were  described 
with  care,  and  curious  histories  of 
them  were  given  in  detail.  One  was 
said  to  be  the  famous  "Sunset  ruby," 
which  had  belonged  to  the  Empress- 
Queen  Maria  Theresa.  One  was  called 
the  "Blood  ruby,"  not,  as  was  ex 
plained,  because  of  the  color,  but  on 
account  of  the  murders  it  had  occa- 
(  80  ) 


A    DILEMMA 

sioned.  Now,  as  I  read,  it  seemed  again 
to  threaten  death. 

The  pearls  were  described  with  care 
as  an  unequalled  collection.  Concern 
ing  two  of  them  my  uncle  had  written 
what  I  might  call  biographies, —  for, 
indeed,  they  seemed  to  have  done  much 
evil  and  some  good.  One,  a  black  pearl, 
was  mentioned  in  an  old  bill  of  sale 
as — She — which  seemed  queer  to  me. 

It  was  maddening.  Here,  guarded 
by  a  vision  of  sudden  death,  was  wealth 
"beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice."  I  am 
not  a  clever  or  ingenious  man ;  I  know 
little  beyond  how  to  keep  a  ledger,  and 
so  I  was,  and  am,  no  doubt,  absurd 
about  many  of  my  notions  as  to  how 
to  solve  this  riddle. 

At  one  time  I  thought  of  finding  a 
man  who  would  take  the  risk  of  un 
locking  the  box,  but  what  right  had  I 
to  subject  any  one  else  to  the  trial  I 
(  81  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

dared  not  face?  I  could  easily  drop  the 
box  from  a  height  somewhere,  and  if 
it  did  not  explode  could  then  safely 
unlock  it ;  but  if  it  did  blow  up  when 
it  fell,  good-by  to  my  rubies.  Mine,  in 
deed  !  I  was  rich,  and  I  was  not.  I  grew 
thin  and  morbid,  and  so  miserable  that, 
being  a  good  Catholic,  I  at  last  carried 
my  troubles  to  my  father  confessor. 
He  thought  it  simply  a  cruel  jest  of 
my  uncle's,  but  was  not  so  eager  for 
another  world  as  to  be  willing  to  open 
my  box.  He,  too,  counselled  me  to 
cease  thinking  about  it.  Good  heav 
ens  !  I  dreamed  about  it.  Not  to  think 
about  it  was  impossible.  Neither  my 
own  thought  nor  science  nor  religion 
had  been  able  to  assist  me. 

Two  years  have  gone  by,  and  I  am 
one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  city,  and 
have  no  more  money  than  will  keep 
me  alive. 

(  82  ) 


A   DILEMMA 

Susan  said  I  was  half  cracked  like 
Uncle  Philip,  and  broke  off  her  en 
gagement.  In  my  despair  I  have  adver 
tised  in  the  "Journal  of  Science,"  and 
have  had  absurd  schemes  sent  me  by 
the  dozen.  At  last, as  I  talked  too  much 
about  it,  the  thing  became  so  well 
known  that  when  I  put  the  horror  in 
a  safe,  in  bank,  I  was  promptly  desired 
to  withdraw  it.  I  was  in  constant  fear 
of  burglars,  and  my  landlady  gave  me 
notice  to  leave,  because  no  one  would 
stay  in  the  house  with  that  box.  I  am 
now  advised  to  print  my  story  and 
await  advice  from  the  ingenuity  of 
the  American  mind. 

I  have  moved  into  the  suburbs  and 
hidden  the  box  and  changed  my  name 
and  my  occupation.  This  I  did  to  es 
cape  the  curiosity  of  the  reporters.  I 
ought  to  say  that  when  the  govern 
ment  officials  came  to  hear  of  my  in- 
(  83  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

heritance,  they  very  reasonably  desired 
to  collect  the  succession  tax  on  my 
uncle's  estate. 

I  was  delighted  to  assist  them.  I  told 
the  collector  my  story,  and  showed 
him  Uncle  Philip's  letter.  Then  I  of 
fered  him  the  key,  and  asked  for  time 
to  get  half  a  mile  away.  That  man 
said  he  would  think  it  over  and  come 
back  later. 

This  is  all  I  have  to  say.  I  have  made 
a  will  and  left  my  rubies  and  pearls  to 
the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Hu 
man  Vivisection.  If  any  man  thinks 
this  account  a  joke  or  an  invention, 
let  him  coldly  imagine  the  situation: 

Given  an  iron  box,  known  to  con 
tain  wealth,  said  to  contain  dynamite, 
arranged  to  explode  when  the  key  is 
used  to  unlock  it — what  would  any 
sane  man  do  ?  What  would  he  advise  ? 

(  84) 


X 

THE    JEWELS    OF    CONSISTENCY 


THE  JEWELS  OF   CONSISTENCY 


THE  dead  of  a  graveyard  sat  in  their 
tombs,  for  now  it  was  the  feast  of  the 
Melad,  when  the  dead  are  as  alive  and 
may  walk  the  earth  for  a  night,  and 
neither  the  angel  Moonkir  questions, 
nor  the  angel  Nekeer  forbids. 

But  many  missed  their  bones,  and 
wailed  with  vain  rattle  of  speech,  till 
one,  who  was  a  miser,  with  dry  laugh 
ter  spake : "  What  need  have  I  to  walk  ? 
Here  be  my  bones  to  sell."  Then  a 
woman  gave  for  a  leg  bone  a  ring, 
and  another  a  fillet  of  gold  for  a  hand ; 
and  thus  there  was  soon  left  of  him 
only  a  skull,  and  to  that  skull  some 
treasures.  These  others  stumbled  away 
rejoicing,  and  as  the  muezzin  sounded 
the  first  sunrise  call  to  prayer  clat- 
(  87  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

tered  into  their  graves.  But  at  morn 
ing  came  down  from  the  palms  mon 
keys,  and  took  the  miser's  skull  for  a 
ball.  The  gold  and  jewels  a  beggar 
found,  and  the  fakir  and  Sufi  speaker 
of  verse,  Ferishtah,  who  saw  all  this 
wonder,  said,  "As  are  the  living,  so 
are  the  dead." 


(  88) 


XI 

"THOU    ART    THE    SOUL    OF 


THY    HOUSE" 


"THOU    ART    THE    SOUL    OF 
THY    HOUSE" 

'THOU    ART   THE    SOUL    OF    THY    HOUSE,    AND    HE    WHO 
AFTER   THEE   INHABITS   IT   WILL    KNOW   THEE." 

PAVEL   SYCHOFSKY.  M.  P.  8. 


MY  friend  Secton  is  a  Ph.D.  in  psy- 
chometry,  and  believes  that  all  things 
created  by  man  have  souls,  and  re 
member,  and  are  what  he  calls  influ 
ential.  It  is  sad  nonsense.  He  believes 
in  lucky  and  unlucky  houses,  and  in 
shops  where  the  successive  owners  al 
ways  fail.  He  goes  further,  and  says 
that  it  is  morally  dangerous  to  live  in 
a  house  where  a  murderer  has  long 
dwelt,  or  in  which  a  murder  has  been 
done.  My  doctor  says  there  is  only  one 
kind  of  ghost  and  that  it  lives  unseen 
of  any  in  houses  where  certain  kinds 
of  diseases  have  killed  men.  This  idea 

(  91  ) 


LITTLE   STORIES 

captures  my  imagination,  through  my 
reason,  and  does  appeal  to  me.  As  to 
the  other  style  of  ghost,  I  entirely  dis 
believe.  My  friend  is  hurt  when  I  say 
that  ghosts  must  be  rare,  since  there  is 
no  mention  of  them  in  the  last  census; 
nor  of  rattlesnakes,  says  Secton,  who 
dislikes  trifling  with  the  serious,  and 
does  not  see  the  logical  value  of  a  jest, 
nor  why  I  grin  at  his  houses  with  "in 
fluential  memories." 

That  doctor  of  mine  also  smiles  at 
Secton's  queer  notions,  and  taps  his 
forehead  indicatively.  But  then,  the 
doctor  is  a  materialist.  So  extreme  a 
mystic  as  Secton  is  more  to  my  taste. 
I  can  readily  see  why,  with  that  kind 
of  a  doctor,  my  wife  remains  neither 
well  enough  to  be  of  use,  nor  ill  enough 
to  be  honestly  pitied.  He  says:  "Bah! 
a  ghost.  I  should  put  a  thermometer 
under  his  tongue,  and  soon  know 
(  92) 


"THOU  ART  THE  SOUL  OF  THY  HOUSE" 

where  he  came  from." 

One  night  in  June,  when  my  wife 
was  away,  Secton  called  at  my  house 
in  South  Kensington,  and  began  at 
once  on  his  hobby.  I  smoked  and  lis 
tened,  mildly  amused.  Secton  is  very 
persistent.  He  suspects  me  of  having 
a  little  leaven  of  love  of  the  mystical, 
which  is  true  of  most  reflective  men. 

He  said  at  last:  "I  have  often  tested 
my  own  belief  as  to  houses.  Will  you 
submit  your  skepticism  to  a  trial?" 

I  replied  that  I  would. 

He  said:  "I  have  hired  a  house  for 
a  week.  I  want  you  to  sleep  there  two 
nights.  To  be  brief,"  he  added,  "I 
make  no  suggestive  statement.  I  have 
furnished  one  room,  the  second  story 
back.  Occupy  it  two  successive  nights, 
and,  mind  you,  it  is  not  a  question  of 
ghosts." 

The  next  night  he  called  for  me. 
(93  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

We  had  a  long  drive  in  a  hansom 
to  a  suburban  house  near  St.  John's 
Wood.  Here  Secton  gave  me  a  key, 
and  left  me  at  the  door. 

The  dwelling  was  large,  and  had  a 
small  walled  garden  behind  it.  It  was 
about  eleven  when  I  lighted  the  candle 
I  found  in  the  hall,  on  the  floor,  for 
the  house  was,  as  he  said,  unfurnished. 
It  smelt  close  and  musty.  I  walked 
through  several  rooms  to  a  little  con 
servatory.  I  found  nothing  unlike  a 
multitude  of  other  so-called  villas. 

I  went  to  my  room,  locked  the  door, 
lighted  three  candles,  set  my  shaving- 
case  and  toilet  affairs  on  a  chair,  for 
want  of  a  table,  and  went  to  bed.  It 
is  proof  of  my  indifferent  attitude  of 
mind  that  I  slept  well.  I  awoke  early, 
about  six,  and,  to  my  surprise,  felt  a 
strange  sense  of  depression,  a  melan 
choly  so  convincing  that  I  seemed  of  a 
(  94  ) 


"THOU  ART  THE  SOUL  OF  THY  HOUSE" 

sudden  to  understand  how  it  was  that 
men  may  desire  to  die.  I  sat  up  with 
a  feeling  of  horror  and  of  recoil  as  from 
an  abyss.  I  struck  my  repeater.  It  was 
after  six  o'clock.  As  I  looked  about  me 
in  the  dim  light,  I  saw  my  razor  lying 
open  on  the  bed.  It  startled  me.  I  was 
sure  I  had  left  it  on  the  chair. 

I  got  up  and  walked  about  the 
room,  and  after  a  little  began  to  be 
more  myself.  As  it  was  very  warm,  I 
opened  a  window.  When  I  turned 
toward  the  bed,  the  razor,  closed,  was 
lying  on  the  chair.  I  began  to  dislike 
the  adventure  and  again  to  feel  the 
cloud  of  melancholy,  like  a  shroud, 
about  me. 

I  dressed  and  went  home,  and  after 
breakfast  was  as  usual.  By  nightfall  I 
had  explained  it  all  to  my  satisfaction, 
and,  reassured,  went  gaily  back  to  the 
house. 

(  95  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

Nothing  unusual  happened.  I 
smoked  a  cigar  or  two,  read  a  sleep- 
compelling  novel,  and  went  to  bed 
at  ten.  I  woke  twice  in  an  hour,  con 
scious  each  time  of  fear,  the  product 
of  dreams  which  at  once  faded  past  re 
call.  After  this  I  was  unable  to  sleep. 
I  was  restless  and  uneasy.  At  last  I  got 
up,  and  in  the  darkness  had  abruptly 
a  sense  of  alarm  which  was  like  a  pos 
session  ;  that  is,  as  of  a  thing,  a  mood, 
which  owned  me.  I  found  a  match, 
and  lighted  all  my  three  candles.  I  was 
in  a  cold  sweat  and  afraid  with  the 
fear  a  nightmare  brings,  and  with  this 
terror  I  was,  also,  in  a  mood  of  deep 
gloom.  I  dressed  and  went  to  a  closet 
to  find  the  novel  I  had  left  on  the 
shelf.  I  was  resolved  to  dismiss  these 
sensations.  As  I  took  it,  I  saw  some 
empty  vials,  and  one  which  was  half 
full.  I  took  it  up,  and  uncorked  it,  and 


"THOU  ART  THE  SOUL  OF  THY  HOUSE" 

smelt  it  to  learn  what  it  might  be.  It 
was  laudanum.  I  staggered  across  the 
room  with  it  in  my  hand,  and  with  an 
oath  threw  it  into  the  fireplace.  I  had 
resisted  the  deadliest  temptation  life 
had  ever  set  in  my  way. 

I  went  slowly  down-stairs,  and  must 
have  been  in  a  queer  condition,  for  I 
seemed  to  be  moving  with  an  onerous 
use  of  will  power.  At  last  I  was  out 
in  the  air  and  was  at  once  relieved. 
After  walking  about  for  hours,  I  re 
luctantly  went  back  to  the  house,  and 
up  to  my  room.  The  fragments  of  the 
bottle  I  had  broken  when  I  threw  it 
on  the  hearth  were  gone. 

As  I  stood  in  amazement,  looking 
about  me,  I  felt  a  slowly  gathering  re 
newal  of  the  melancholy  of  the  night 
before.  Was  it  all  a  dream — or  what? 
My  reason  and  my  will  power  were  af 
fected  by  the  mood  of  gloom,  and  by 
(97  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

the  desire,  the  longing  to — I  would 
not  say  it  even  to  that  confidant,  my 
own  mind.  I  hastily  put  my  toilet 
things  in  a  hand-bag,  and  went  away 
to  get,  at  home,  a  bath  and  breakfast. 
The  feeling  of  depression  was  with  me 
until  evening. 

When  I  called  on  Secton  and  made 
my  statement  he  asked  if  I  were  sat 
isfied.  I  replied  that,  as  to  the  razor, 
it  must  have  been  a  lapse  of  memory, 
and  possibly — 

Secton  broke  in:  "But  I  say,  man, 
do  you  leave  open  razors  on  your  bed 
and  forget  them  ?  Or  do  you  mean  me 
to  believe  that  it  is  a  habit  of  yours  to 
get  up  in  your  sleep  and  shave  your 
self?" 

"But,"  said  I,  "how  else  can  I  ex 
plain  it?" 

"That  is  just  the  question.  I  can  ex 
plain  it.  What  about  the  laudanum?" 
(98  ) 


"THOU  ART  THE  SOUL  OF  THY  HOUSE" 

I  replied  that  I  must  have  been,  in 
some  way,  the  fool  of  my  own  sugges 
tive  imagination. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  certainly  rea 
son  very  oddly.  And  so  you  remain 
unconvinced." 

"Of  what  am  I  to  be  convinced?"  I 
said  nothing  of  my  melancholy  mood, 
nor  of  the  temptation.  I  hated  to  think 
of  what  was  an  absolutely  new,  and 
as  surely  very  humbling,  remembrance 
for  a  man  as  decisive  as  I. 

He  sneered  as  he  returned:  "You 
wished  to  test  the  value  of  my  belief 
that  houses  have  active  memories  and 
may  affect,  as  with  a  moral  malaria, 
those  who  live  in  them." 

"Yes;  that  is  put  fairly.  What  of 
that  house — what  does  it  remember  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you.  Three  persons  have 
taken  their  lives  in  that  house ;  no  one 
can  live  in  it." 

(99  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

"Stop!"  I  said.  "Were  they  all  of 
one  family?" 

"Yes." 

"That,"  I  urged,  "seems  to  me  to 
lessen  the  value  of  your  test." 

"Does  it?"  he  said.  "For  them,  per 
haps  ;  but  not  for  you.  Now  be  fair." 

I  said  it  required  thought. 

I  think  he  knew  that  I  had  not  been 
entirely  frank,  for  he  asked  if  I  would 
try  another  night  in  the  same  house. 

I  said,  "No."  Upon  which  he  re 
plied,  smiling: 

"I  do  not  ask  why.  I  am  satisfied." 

Secton  has  good  manners.  He  might 
have  made  himself  disagreeable. 


(  100  ) 


XII 

A    STEP-SON    OF    KNOWLEDGE 


A    STEP-SON    OF    KNOWLEDGE 


ONCE,  at  night,  the  Caliph,  having 
lost  his  way,  said  to  one  standing 
where  the  roads  divide,  "I  have  lost 
my  way."  Cried  the  stranger,  "How 
canst  thou  lose  what  thou  hast  never 
owned  ? "  Then,  seeing  that  he  to  whom 
he  spake  was  ill  at  ease,  he  added,  "Be 
not  dismayed.  As  is  the  pig,  so  is  the 
pearl.  Allah  hath  made  both.1  What 
one  man  loses  another  finds.  Thy 
grandson  may  be  fortunate." 

"O  dervish,  quickener  of  the  soul," 
said  Haroun,  "I  have  found  in  thy 
mouth  knowledge,  but  it  does  not 
help  me  to  reach  home;  for,  truly,  to 
ask  and  to  get  are  not  as  one,  and 

1  This  is  a  little  obscure  in  the  original  prose.  The 
Arabic  of  this  date  is  often  difficult. 

(  103  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

kibobs  of  rubies  fill  not  the  empty 
belly." 

"Thou  art  wise  with  such  wisdom 
as  is  feeble  in  the  knees,"  cried  the 
stranger.  "Thou  hast  a  vain  desire  to 
get  somewhere.  Better  is  it  never  to 
arrive  than  to  sit  on  the  throne  of  sat 
isfaction.  In  the  bazaar  of  the  philoso 
phies  are  no  divans." 

"Alack,"  said  the  Caliph,  "I  am 
neither  a  pig  nor  a  pearl;"1  and  went 
his  way. 


1  This  again  is  obscure. 

(  104) 


XIII 


THE    SINS    OF    THE    FATHERS 


THE   SINS   OF  THE   FATHERS 


JAMES  CARSTAIRS,  just  home  from 
Africa,  was  smoking  in  the  Travellers' 
Club  in  London.  He  felt  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder  and  rose  to  greet  Captain 
Marston,  an  old  comrade. 
/^Said  Marston:  "I  hope,  Jim,  you 
are  all  right.  Heard  you  brought  home 
a  coast  fever." 

"No,  I  am  well.  I  have  been  up 
among  your  friends,  the  Mandingos." 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  have  lots  to 
tell  us?" 

"By  George,  yes!  Will  it  suit  you 
to  have  me  dine  with  you  to-morrow  ? 
I  will  bring  my  photos.  I  shall  be  glad 
to  show  them  to  Mrs.  Marston.  They 

Reprinted  from  Lippincott's  Magazine,  for  March, 
1902,  by  permission. 

(  107  ) 


. 


LITTLE    STORIES 

have  come  out  well." 

"Yes,  of  course;  delighted  to  have 
you." 

"Now  I  must  go.  I  have  to  meet  a 
committee  of  the  Geographical  So 
ciety.  I  lived  with  the  Mandingos  six 
months.  I  think  you  were  there  just 
twelve  years  ago." 

"Yes.  I  suppose  the  infernal  man- 
trade  goes  on  ? " 

"Oh,  worse  than  ever.  After  I  left 
for  the  coast  the  hunters  raided  the 
poor  devils." 

Said  Marston:  "I  am  sorry  for  that. 
They  were  kindly  folk,  and  the  women 
not  ill-looking." 

/I  "So-so,"  returned  Carstairs.  "I  saw 
the  lot  of  slaves  later,  at  Loango,  on 
the  coast.  I  bought  off  a  half-dozen 
and  sent  them  home.  They  were  fel 
lows  who  had  been  very  useful  to  me." 

"That  was  like  you,  Carstairs." 
(  108  ) 


THE    SINS    OF    THE    FATHERS 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  Marston,  among 
those  I  set  free  there  was  a  lad  about 
eleven  or  twelve,  rather  light-colored, 
—had  some  white  blood,  I  fancy.  I 
bought  him  too  because  he  took  an 
awful  licking  and  never  winced.  You 
will  laugh,  but  my  desire  to  buy  him 
was  increased  because  he  reminded  me 
of  you." 

Marston  started.  "Of  me?  What  do 
you  mean?" 

"Yes;  he  had  a  white  lock  of  hair 
over  his  left  temple,  like  yours — queer, 
wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marston.  "Unusual, 
very;  but  I  know  two  people  who 
have  it." 

"Well,  I  never  saw  it  before  in  a 
nigger.  Oh,  by  George!  it  is  so  jolly 
good  to  see  you  that  I  almost  forgot." 
He  looked  up  at  the  clock.  "  Good-by. 
At  eight  to-morrow,  you  said." 

<y  (  109  ) 


LITTLE    STORIES 

"Yes,  at  eight.  We  shall  be  alone." 

"  I  will  show  you  my  maps ;  and,  by 
the  way,  I  have  a  photo  of  the  boy." 

He  went  away.  Mars  ton  sat  down, 
and  for  a  half-hour  remained  moveless, 
with  his  unlighted  cigar  between  his 
lips.  Then  he  rose,  went  slowly  down 
stairs,  took  his  hat  and  his  top-coat, 
and  passed  out  into  the  street.  At  the 
foot  of  the  steps  he  stood  still — and 
said  aloud: 

"My  God!  That's  awful!" 


THE    END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN   DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


•  .  . 

JAN  2  5  1C94 

Ftb^6l957 

'  -t? 

RFfTtl   iLQ 

APR  6     I960 

!968  9  9 

RECEIVED 

MAY    5  '68  -M  Am 

LOAN  DEPT* 

AUGlfclk( 

1'91 

id  3 

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